Needles.
The bitch rest's, heaving, taking in vast gulps of air to fill a tiny space.
The day finds empty promises, broken oaths; final stroke on hand to fill the empty cup to the brim.
Blood rushes in; rivers of red wind their way through high mountain tops, low valleys; a plateau of lost thought.
The cock, the sparrow, the armistice;
lay down your arms.
Lay flat on your stomach, face first.
Dive into those lowly avenues.
The bitch awakens, disrupting all things.
The fucker hovers over me, he draws first blood.
I am a slave to all of these.
Needles.
Needles on the fuckers arm.
